Drawing Lessons Page 17

  When they made it to the bar, Nishi turned to her and said, “Oh my god, this is your golden ticket right here.” She nodded her head back the way they’d come. “You didn’t tell me he was painting you—” she lowered her voice, “—nude. Richard will have to refile for divorce after this.” She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. “This is perfect.”

  That thought was the only thing that had sustained Marie during the past several weeks. Weeks of her mother’s badgering (when are you moving back into the house), weeks of Richard showing up unannounced at her office to take her to lunch, weeks of Maya’s snide jabs at her online. Weeks of hiding it all from Luc. She never had told him. He’d been working so intensely on the paintings for the show, Marie didn’t have the heart to break the news. Oh by the way dear, my husband wants me back.

  “Bonjour, ladies.”

  He took her breath away. It was just that simple. He was wearing a black suit, cut close to his body, and a pale yellow shirt open at the collar. No tie. His hair was its usual barely restrained bedhead. And yes, clever shoes.

  She was wearing her favorite dress from her “it girl” days. A pale grey low-cut sheath covered with silvery beaded passementerie. It was sexy but sophisticated, and it always stood out in a sea of Washington neutrals.

  She was no shrinking violet tonight.

  Luc gave the dress a frankly admiring look, then leaned in and kissed her. He turned to Nishi and lifted her hand to his lips. “I am forever in your debt,” he said to her. “If it weren’t for your gift, I never would have met Marie. And this show would be filled with paintings of sappy landscapes.”

  Nishi launched into a torrent of French and even Marie had to smile at the surprised look on Luc’s face. Nishi spoke a dozen languages, thanks to the dozen countries she’d lived in as a diplomat’s child. Luc recovered well, and Marie thought what a pleasure it was to watch him converse in his native language. He grimaced, smiled, rolled his eyes. He was more animated in French than in English, and she wished for the first time that she spoke French, too.

  “But we are being rude.” Nishi switched back to English, smiling at Marie. “I’m satisfied that I got my money’s worth.”

  Marie heard Luc’s phone buzz in his jacket pocket. He frowned. “Sam is paging me. I keep trying to disappear into the crowd and she keeps finding me.” He leaned in to kiss Marie once more. “Don’t leave without me.”

  Nishi fanned the air in front of her neck when he was gone, swallowed whole by the crowd. “Please tell me he’s good in the sack.”

  Marie blushed, her body already tingling from just those few minutes with him.

  “Okay, that’s my answer. Let’s go have a look at these paintings.”

  * * *

  Luc surveyed the room. It was different seeing all of the paintings hanging together. He and Sam had decided upon a mostly chronological hanging. Not that most people would notice what Luc saw, the changes in Marie—and in how he saw her—from the first canvas to the last, but it was the way that felt most right to him.

  He watched the crowd, taking note of which paintings people were spending the most time with, which ones seemed to generate the most discussion. He was disappointed that the most popular painting was the first one he’d done, Marie sitting on the stool as if she were an art school model. Her dream. Out of all of them, it was the most impersonal pose and the one she liked the least.

  Luc’s favorite was of Marie asleep in his bed, her head on his pillow, her body beneath his sheets. Just remembering it sent a frisson of pleasure down his spine. Spending the night with someone required a tremendous amount of trust, it had always seemed to Luc. Lying next to someone while you were essentially unconscious. Trusting that they wouldn’t hurt you. Trusting that they would still be there when you woke. He half hoped no one would buy that one. He’d prefer it hang in his own bedroom. Of course, he could always paint another like it but it wouldn’t be the same. He could never go back to the way he saw her that morning.

  Most of all, though, he watched her.

  He was dying to be with her, but kept his distance so he wouldn’t draw attention to her. Even so, people whispered as they glanced between her and the paintings. He admired her courage in letting him do this. Sam thought they both were crazy. And maybe we are. Crazy in love. Luc hadn’t been in love since Grace, and that was over a decade ago now. Sam had arranged dates for him with countless women, but nothing had ever taken hold with any of them.

  “I know it’s damned inconvenient,” he’d said to Sam when he showed her the first few canvases. “I get that. But the heart wants what it wants. Mine wants a senator’s wife.”

  Why Marie Witherspoon? So many women, so many years—and his heart had remained dead. Now it was alive again and he didn’t care why. He was loathe to examine his heart too closely. That way madness lies.

  “You think you can rescue her,” Sam had said.

  Perhaps. Perhaps he had that subconscious need. But a woman who would allow herself to be exposed to the world the way Marie was tonight hardly needed rescuing. She was learning to let herself be seen, and it had opened his own eyes too. For all his blather about practiced innocence, he’d been shut down for years. Emotionally. Physically. Artistically.

  Painting rich people’s lives had conveniently allowed him to keep his own eyes shut. You don’t have to see much in order to paint a car or a yacht. They don’t change. Everyone’s Maserati looks the same. But every weekend, the Marie who showed up at his studio door was a slightly different woman. Every weekend, he’d been forced to see her in a new light, to look at her more closely, to look into her.

  And when Sam’s gallery closed in a few hours, he intended to look at her again.

  * * *

  The butterflies caroming around her stomach could have been from nerves, from the knowledge that Luc was in the same building tonight, or from the uncertainty she felt about her best friend seeing the show. Nishi hadn’t said a word about any of the paintings so far.

  “So what do you think?” she asked warily.

  “They’re beautiful, Marie. I mean, I have no idea how he got you to do this.” Nishi gave a little laugh and shook her head.

  “It was my idea, actually.”

  The surprised look on Nishi’s face was priceless. “He’s been good for you, hasn’t he? You were always so gloomy with Richard. When you came into the office that first time, I don’t think you said ten words. You seem—” Nishi waved her hand gracefully through the air—”freer now. More relaxed.”

  “I don’t know what he sees in me though.”

  “Are you kidding? What he sees in you is all over the walls here.” She looked at the painting they were standing next to, the one of Marie sleeping. “Anyone can tell that the artist painted his lover here. When I look at Imran sleeping, I see those luscious black eyelashes and how adorable his hair is, sticking out every which way. When I look at his twin brother sleeping, I see someone with sleep apnea who’s drooling and badly in need of a haircut.” She shook her head. “You know, before tonight, I would have said that I know you better than anyone. But I’m conceding that crown to him. He’s unearthed a side of Marie Witherspoon I would never have guessed existed.”

  “I’m counting on a certain someone not liking this side of me.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he will. Not at all.”

  Nishi pulled out her phone and began furiously texting.

  “You’re not inviting Imran, are you?” That would be weird, Nishi’s husband seeing the paintings.

  “No, no. I’m inviting some reporters. They need to get their asses down here asap.”

  “I thought you said the arts reporters were unlikely to cover a local gallery show.”

  Nishi chuffed. “I’m not texting them. I’m getting the political beat. They’ll be beside themselves at this. Let’s see who gets here first.”

  Nishi looked up from her phone. “Are you getting nervous?”

  “Getting?”

  �
��Relax. This is it. Richard will drop you like the proverbial hot potato after this.”

  Marie kept reminding herself of that throughout the evening. In a few days, she’d be free of Richard forever. She took another sip of wine, hiding behind the wine glass as best she could. She felt intensely watched. People eyed her curiously. Several asked if she was the model.

  But no one seemed to know who she was, or mentioned Richard or her parents. She took a another long sip of wine, trying to calm her still fluttering nerves. She needed Richard to find out about Luc’s show. It was her only way out. At the same time, she dreaded it happening. It would not be pretty. Nothing with Richard ever was.

  She caught Samantha Smith staring at her, and not in a friendly way. The woman was unsmiling, her jaw set, her eyes cold and appraising. Marie’s heart dropped into her feet when Samantha began walking toward her.

  “Marie? May I speak with you for a moment?”

  Samantha Smith looked even more imposing up close. Her black suit was immaculately tailored and her heels gave her a considerable height advantage over Marie. She didn’t wait for Marie’s reply. She took her arm and said, “Come back to my office with me,” then to Nishi a quick “Excuse us.”

  Samantha Smith’s office was small, with art books stacked everywhere. On her desk, on a side table, on the floor. Canvases wrapped in brown paper leaned against the walls. She herself seemed to take up ninety percent of the space. Marie had to fight the urge to shrink back against the wall.

  “Good turnout tonight,” Marie said.

  “You had better not hurt Luc. He’s been hurt by a woman before.”

  Marie tried to protest that hurting Luc was the last thing she intended, but Sam cut her off.

  “I’ll be honest with you. I didn’t like the idea of this show. These paintings won’t be hard for me to sell but you know as well as I do that there may be some ... fallout, shall we call it? I haven’t mentioned to him that you and your husband are reconciling because the last thing I wanted to do was distract him before the show. Fortunately, he doesn’t pay any attention to Washington gossip.”

  “I’m not getting back together with my husband. That’s not happening.”

  “According to your mother, it is.”

  “Last I checked, I was an adult. My mother doesn’t run my life.”

  Sam cocked an eyebrow at her.

  “Would my mother have allowed me to do this? Pose nude for an artist? She doesn’t even know about this yet.”

  Sam shrugged, conceding the point. “I won’t see him hurt again, Marie. It has taken him all these years to get over it. He deserves a woman who’s going to stick around.”

  Marie followed Sam out of her office. The other woman quickly disappeared into the crowd, as if being absorbed by it. Marie realized she was shaking.

  What woman had hurt Luc? And why had it taken years to get over? Had he been married before? If she were Nishi, she would have had the presence of mind to ask Samantha Smith these questions. But she wasn’t Nishi, of course. And so she’d simply let Luc’s friend run the conversation, say her piece and then end it without waiting for Marie to respond.

  And don’t you ruin his show, Marie wanted to retort to Samantha Smith. But of course she couldn’t. Samantha and Luc were friends. She had a longer history with him than Marie did. She knows him better than you do.

  I know Luc, too. I do. In ways Samantha Smith never will.

  But doubts were wiggling their way into her chest. And these weren’t butterflies, either—delicate, paper-thin wings flitting in and around her thoughts. These were house flies, sturdy and buzzing, coming back every time she swatted one away.

  No. She’d just had nearly a month of utter happiness with Luc. Bliss, she would even call it. Yes, she would call it sheer, unadulterated bliss. They knew each other, got each other. Saw each other. Whatever his friend was insinuating was nonsense.

  She was just jealous, that’s all. I bet she wanted Luc, too, all those years ago and couldn’t have him. He didn’t want her that way and she’s never gotten over it.

  She threaded her way back through the gallery rooms, in search of Nishi. Maybe she’d heard back from some of the reporters. Media coverage, no matter how small, was essential here. Obviously, she couldn’t just call up Richard and tell him about the show. He’d shut it down somehow, get Samantha’s business license revoked or something. No, he had to hear it from a third party, as evidence that other people already knew about it. A few well-placed articles would speed up that process considerably.

  Her spirits were rising again at the thought that she might be rid of Richard within a week. Sweet, glorious freedom!

  She found Nishi standing in front of a group of small charcoal drawings. Marie’s feet sticking out from beneath the eiderdown. Her chin and mouth, a mug of coffee kissing her lips. Her hair fanned out over her shoulders. They were intimate portraits, not so much of her but of moments in time, moments between them. She remembered each one with perfect clarity.

  Nishi pointed to the last one, her laugh lilting and refined beneath her breath. The drawing was of Marie’s abdomen, water sluicing down her skin, wet hair, hand between her legs.

  Nishi laid her arm across Marie’s shoulder. “Yup. Your ticket out.”

  Chapter 19

  Samantha Smith’s beach house was all weathered grey siding, wraparound decks and giant windows overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. It was Friday evening, six days before Thanksgiving, and Luc and Marie had arrived to spend the weekend together. The sun had set behind them, its orange-purple glow in the rearview mirrors. In the near distance, the ocean churned noisily beneath a dark, cloud-spotted sky.

  “It’s nice of her to let us stay here,” Marie said as Luc pulled the car into the driveway. “I don’t think she was too happy with me the other night.”

  “Sam worries about me. But the show is selling well, so I think she’s over it.” Luc beamed a big smile at her.

  I won’t see him hurt again. It has taken him all these years to get over it.

  Marie wasn’t so sure Samantha Smith would get over it. She was dying to ask Luc about his friend’s cryptic comments but he was so happy, whistling-while-he-drove-happy. So Marie tried to be happy too for his sake. All had been quiet on the press front since the show on Wednesday; Nishi had cautioned patience. But Marie was antsy. Whatever was going to happen with Richard, she wanted to get it over with. The anticipation was always worse.

  Even worse, of course, would be for nothing to happen, for Richard to remain blissfully unaware of the nude paintings of his wife hanging in the heart of Washington. Marie had no backup plan to force his hand.

  Luc cut the ignition, then reached over and covered her hand with his, warm and protective. “Your mother hasn’t called?”

  Marie had called in sick yesterday and today, just in case. “I told her I thought I should rest up so I was well for Thanksgiving. She and my father always have a lot of people over. My presence on Thanksgiving is more important to her than having me at work.” Even less so now that her mother was expecting her to reconcile with Richard. Marie wondered how long it would be before her mother laid her off again.

  She knew she had to tell Luc about Richard but how? And when? His feet had barely touched the ground since the show. He was in an expansive mood and looking forward to a romantic weekend a deux, just the two of them holed up in Sam’s waterfront home. She didn’t have the heart to spoil it.

  He handed her a set of keys. “Why don’t you unlock the house while I bring in dinner and the groceries?” They had stopped at a local restaurant to pick up two of their famed calzones, on Sam’s recommendation.

  Inside, Marie looked around Sam’s house with awe. The kitchen sported stainless steel chef-style appliances and an island roughly the size of Maui. She ran her hand over the smooth, cool granite, the color of which—a melange of ivory, beige and gold—reminded her of seashells. When she set her purse on top, she heard her phone vibrate inside. She pulled it out t
o find a text from Nishi. Story has broken.

  “Hope you brought an appetite.” Luc was suddenly in the kitchen, sliding the restaurant’s carryout bag and another canvas bag of provisions across the island. “Be right back. Just have to retrieve the wine. Don’t want to forget that.” He winked at her.

  Marie shoved the phone back in her purse. She doubted she would have much of an appetite this weekend. She strolled over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that ran along the back of the house. Less than a hundred yards away, the ocean churned furiously, the dunes and sand deserted. She felt Luc’s hands brush aside her hair, then his lips found her neck.

  “What is wrong, ma chérie? Something is troubling you today.”

  She shook her head.

  “I know you better than that, Marie.” He took her hand and led her back to the kitchen. “Choose a bottle of wine for us.”

  While she inspected the labels—all French, all meaningless to her—Luc picked up a remote and pointed it at the small television in the kitchen. The Weather Channel filled the screen as she uncorked a bottle of burgundy, then went in search of glasses in Sam’s giant kitchen.

  “In the cabinet on the end,” Luc said.

  The weekend was expected to be mostly sunny, high temps in the fifties, nice enough for a walk along the beach. Luc watched the forecast through twice as he plated their calzones. Marie poured two glasses of wine while he began to scroll through channels.

  “Nude paintings of a senator’s wife are causing a bit of a scandal on Capitol Hill this week,” a serious-looking blonde newscaster opined on CNN.

  Marie held her breath as Luc’s trigger finger sped past the channel. She carefully set a glass of wine next to his plate on the island.

  He clicked back a channel. There on the screen was Samantha Smith’s gallery, people walking past on the street, then a cut to the inside of the gallery. Marie held her breath as the camera panned the walls. Several of the paintings were blurred inside their frames. “Due to the graphic nature of the show, we cannot show you all of the portraits.” There was Sam describing Luc as an important artist—Luc snorted at the television—and brief interviews with several people who happened to be in the gallery at the time.